


you were meant to share the fire

by miabicicletta



Series: Certain Calculations [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Original Character(s), Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:06:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1615445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miabicicletta/pseuds/miabicicletta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His son, he knows, is many things he will never be, and even more that he will never understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you were meant to share the fire

**Author's Note:**

> A little stand alone fic that takes place in the _[and still, it moves](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1142025/chapters/2310752)_ universe of Jack and Anna Holmes. I felt like this stood on its own. This story contains an allusion to events in an upcoming chapter of the larger story. Promise that is on its way. Title of this piece comes from the lovely, if sentimental (sorry, Sherlock) tune [You Were Born by Cloud Cult](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jdcGnq56Dv8). Prefer the live version, which can be found on Spotify, but the album version is lovely, too. Finally, heartfelt thanks to delightful beta reader RavishingInRed for her wonderful feedback.

Solving cases on the sly becomes their secret tradition. Weekends when Molly is on shift and Anna is otherwise occupied with tiresome friends and multitudinous hobbies, the pair of them sift through Sherlock’s inbox, searching for mystery and adventure. They had started slowly—threes, fours. But this most recent had been a five, and Jack had solved it (with minimal input from his father) in only the space of a few hours. 

Sherlock Holmes could not be prouder. 

By all outward appearances, they are almost nothing alike. Where Sherlock is aloof, cold, remote, Jack is convivial, bright, engaging. His son, he knows, is many things he will never be, and even more that he will never understand. But the pride Jack inspires in him is nothing short of _tremendous_. No one, save Molly Hooper, perhaps, will ever know the great catalogue of things Sherlock cherishes about his son. Of course, the defining quality—that wildfire mind, intrinsically drawn to the same puzzles, conundrums and crimes that enrapture him. More impressive still is his youngest child’s ability to navigate social cues and conventions of the world without effort; without need for pretense, deception, or disguise. He is constantly surprised and touched by the emotional depth his children possess; and by Jack especially with his affability; his humor; his capacity to love. Certainly none of it came from him. 

“Detective Donovan _really_ doesn’t like you.” Jack comments, shoving hands in his pockets as they stroll home from the scene of a badly managed art theft in Camden Town. The winter air is crisp and cold as night descends on Regent’s Park.

“No, she does not,” Sherlock agrees. 

“You were a bit of a dick to her,” Jack points out. 

He gives his son a look, knowing Molly would frown at the use of _language_. Still. Not wrong. “Goes both ways. I assume you heard that last comment speculating as to your actual parentage. I promise you have no reason to doubt that I am your father.”

“‘ _Jack, I am you father_ ,” his son growls, raising his mittened fists high. “‘ _Join me and together we shall rule the galaxy!_ ’”

“Christ, enough. You sound like your sister,” Sherlock groans. “My kingdom for a day without _Star Wars_. Or the one with the...trash-can-plunger-thingies.”

“ _Daleks_ ,” Jack spits with shocked reproach. “They are called _the Daleks_. You can’t _not_ know who the Daleks are. You can get kicked out of Britain for that.”

“Absurd,” Sherlock mutters, “...accustomed to a higher quality of villain.”

“You know,” Jack says, droll, “people would actually be nicer to you if you didn’t completely knock their interests. Give it a go sometime. You might surprise the better half of Western society and make a few more friends.”

“Never went in for ‘nice,’” Sherlock points out. “Or making friends and...things,” he finishes tersely with wave of his hand. 

“...like getting girls,” Jack mumbles. 

He stops in his tracks. “‘Getting girls–’ Are we doing that already? Aren’t you about seven or something?” 

“Don’t be deliberately thick.” Jack swipes an elbow at him, bumbling and playful. His mouth twists in an insolent grin. “I’m eleven—totally the best Doctor, by the way—which you full well know being as you made fun of Mycroft eating two pieces of cake at my birthday. What’s that? Becoming forgetful with age, old man?”

“Perfer Nine myself." Sherlock looks aside, frowning. For some reason Jack’s offhand estimation of him affects his sense of self; strips some...something. He feels oddly compelled to alter his son’s opinion of him. He turns to his son, inquires: “Doesn’t your own existence disprove the assertion that I’m 'not good with girls?'"

Jack looks at him, brows knitted together. “How do you mean?”

Sherlock gestures grandly, stating the obvious. “I have your mother, haven’t I?”

His son scoffs. “Course you haven’t.”

“Of course I _do_. We’ve known each other for a hundred years. We’ve cohabitated longer than you’ve been alive, for God’s sake.”

“You still haven’t _got_ her.”

“Don't be absurd.”

“You’re not married.”

“Nope.”

“So, she could marry someone else.”

Sherlock’s turn to scoff. “She won’t.”

“Meena says she should.”

“Only because Meena _detests_ me.” 

“ _You_ detest _Meena_ ,” Jack replies, mirroring his inflection.

“Mmm, yes. The rare point on which we agree.”

“You both like me, though,” Jack adds, a facetiously wide smile stretching across his face.

“On occasion,” Sherlock answers, the corner of his mouth rising as he feigns disinterest. "I would like you more if you preferred and sought out individual activities instead of all these ‘team sports’ you insist on joining.”

“Developin’ my character. Leadership and collaboration and all that wash they tell us about in PE.”

“Overrated. You have an IQ higher than most members of Parliament. What d’you wanna join the football team for?”

“Eh, Nicky and Jules are alright. And David’s always a laugh. It’s good to have mates. Even you’ve got John and Mary and Greg, don’t you?”

“Despite my better instincts, I suppose.”

They make their way down Baker Street in silence. Outside of Speedy’s cafe, he stops. “Your mother isn’t going to leave me, you know,” he says, putting a hand on his son’s shoulder. “And I will never leave her.”

Jack is very quiet. “You did though,” he says, staring down into damp gutter water.. 

The cold air whips between them in the growing dark. There is no denying it, the Bad Time. The lost year that even now still hangs between he and Molly.

“I know.” Sherlock swallows, still touched by the shame of it. “One of the most regrettable decisions I’ve made in my life. I do promise you, it will not happen again. Not ever."

His son, looks up, studies his face. "If you did," Jack says, slowly, expression grave. “Gran and Mary and Mrs. Hudson would murder you."

“Mmm. Probably. The unholy trinity of them."

" _Actually_ murder you. And Mum would have to do the autopsy on you and she’d cry. Dad,” Jack says, kicking at a bit of snow. “Don’t make Mum cry, alright?”

Sherlock Holmes looks to his son, who is...God. _So_ much of Molly. A point in his chest contracts, pangs with joy and hope and fear for this impish, brown-haired, blue-eyed piece of them both, who wanders the world in Adidas trainers, bearing a cheeky grin for everyone he meets. Even Donovan. Even _Anderson_. In his lesser moments, Sherlock does not understand how he could ever have played a part in the creation of this bright and whole-hearted person; this boy who is by nature so full of optimism, empathy and cheer. Sally Donovan’s earlier remark returns to him. 

“Dunno how The Freak ended up with such a sweet one. You’d think Hooper had it off with someone else, havin’ a kid like that.”

“Yeah, well. Universe likes a bit of irony,” Lestrade had quipped in response.

Truly.

“John,” he says, in a rare use of his youngest child’s given name. “There are few codes I live my life by. Certainly, I am not the best man. Neither you nor any other human being on this planet need much in the way of deductive reasoning to determine that. But I do swear that for the rest of my undeserving life, it will remain my solemn task to make Molly Hooper happy. And, by extension, you and your sister.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” He pauses, assesses the whole of it. “Probably still be a bit of a dick sometimes, though.”

“Yeah, probably.” Jack grins, and leans in close, pressing against Sherlock’s coat. 

Sherlock grins back. “Nice work today. Not sure I can call you ‘scoundrel’ anymore if you insist on solving the cases rather than perpetrating them.” 

“Call it research for my eventual criminal empire,” his son quips. “Speakin’ of crimes, what’s our cover story?” Jack asks, chin against his chest. 

“The usual should do it.”

“Where have you two been?” Molly asks as they rise the stairs to the flat.

“Chips,” they answer together.

* * *

You were born, to change this life.  
You were born, to make this right.  
You were born.  
\- Cloud Cult, “You Were Born”


End file.
